Curveball
by VO1
Summary: Sometimes life throws you a curveball. You can catch it, drop it, but it's still coming at you. Zach and Amy stumble towards love.   A/Z, sequel to "Economics".


Curveball

Chapter 1 High Tide or Low Tide

The sand was still warm when Zach hauled his board to shore and crossed the beach, dusting stray particles out of his hair as he trudged up the short slope to his house. He unzipped his wetsuit, cranked the handle on the outdoor shower and began rinsing off his board, and then his head. The clattering of the shower spray on the flagstones and the splash and rush of the Pacific Ocean against the shore was the only sound in the quiet evening. The sky blazed the color of a neon cocktail as the sun dipped below the horizon, tossing golden rays across the white siding of his house as it retired.

Against this breathtaking backdrop, Zach bent over, coughed, and hocked a load of phlegm into the sand. Fucking smog.

He loved the beach, loved the ocean, but the multitudes of Hummer-driving pricks in California was getting to him. He had tried a few other spots, but exotic tropical locales with great surf seemed to attract rich white assholes, and rich white assholes tended to bring their asshole cars and asshole trophy wives and asshole attitudes that made them think they owned the place. They didn't care how much their new asshole homes destroyed natural ecosystems, and how much toxic emissions their asshole cars spewed out as they drove to asshole Whole Foods, and how much the local citizens usually hated their asshole asses.

Zach was a rich white asshole, but not _that_ kind of rich white asshole. Obviously. The most reasonable course of action would be to settle in to the ground zero of rich white assholes, thus making him the sanest person in a hundred mile radius by default.

And the smuggest.

A quick glance down the beach proved no one was around, so he stripped down to his bare skin and lathered up with the shampoo bar he left outside. After dropping the board and hanging the wetsuit in the back storage room, he decided that the evaporating water felt rather good on his bare skin.

The night had just turned into Naked Night.

A quick peek into his locked antique cabinet confirmed that he still had a few nuggets of Kush, so the night had just turned into Naked Weed Night, aka "Thursday". He grabbed his glass, a lighter, and a stack of unread mail that had to be a few months old, and settled in.

The first handful was nothing but junk mail fliers. Zach rolled his increasingly glassy, leaf-green eyes and chucked them aside. Fucking douchebag corporations would kill a million trees to have one stupid fool buy their cheap goddamn Chinese-manufactured plastic. Some of the fliers didn't even have the correct name on it: one Bank of America credit card solicitation was addressed to "McSmokes A. Lott, Jr", and another for "Dirt McGirt" and for a long moment, he considered applying under that name and seeing if bottomless greed extended to obvious fake names. Probably. He exhaled the breath he was holding and tossed more mail aside.

His hands stopped over the heavy cream-colored envelope addressed to him in hand-lettered calligraphy. Shit, they even got his middle name. He put down his bowl and tried to shove his thumb through the sealed edge, ripping a ragged seam down the side, and was rewarded with a small paper cut. "Fucking asshole envelope!" The insert was a single page, embossed with gold ink and devoid of any extraneous decoration save a lot of curly, formal text. One name was immediately recognizable; Zach fumbled for his phone and stuck the earbud in.

The voice on the other end was groggy with sleep. "Are you in jail?'

"Why does everyone say that when I call them at night?" Zach blew out a plume of smoke and checked the time on the iPhone. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, it's like…ten o'clock for you. Not even married yet and you've already turned into a boring old fucker."

He heard Kevin exhale. "It was a long day."

"What, robbing innocent souls of their life savings takes that much out of you? I stand by my theory that only boring old saggy-balled fucks go to bed before midnight."

"Is that Zach?" A female voice came through in the background.

"Is that Mina?" Zach continued. "Are you _both_ in bed? What the fuck; was _Wheel of Fortune_ a repeat tonight? Did you already see Pat spin the wheel from Denver? Did you guys rub Ben-Gay on each other and then have really slow, dusty sex for two and a half minutes or until one of you passed out from exhaustion?"

"Are you high?"

"Kevin, when am I not high?"

"When you visit your mother."

"Uh, correction: I am _constantly _high when I visit my mother. It's the only way to get through it without committing matricide."

"Whatever. You love your mother," Mina piped up.

"Am I on speakerphone?"

"Yes."

"Oh good, then maybe you should hear this. Are you aware that Kevin is marrying some other woman? This invitation that I just received through the U.S. Postal service says that he's engaged to a powderhead retiree named 'Philomena'? Probably from Florida. Probably votes Republican."

"Yes," Mina replied dryly. "That's me."

Zach exploded into giggles and sprinkled hot ash on his bare thighs. "Your name is 'Philomena'? Oh G-d, you ARE an old lady!" He checked the invitation again. "'Philomena Rose'? Mina, you've got the name of a ninety-year old woman! Do you vote Republican? Don't lie, you can tell me. I'll only mock you behind your back."

"Shut up, ZACHARIAS. I was named after my grandma"

"Yeah, I can tell. And it's actually 'Zachary'. Zachary David."

"Nobody cares," Kevin interjected in a rare moment of schoolyard mocking.

"You should. Zachary David is a pretty fucking awesome guy.

And speaking of 'fucking awesome', how come I got the crusty formal invitation and not a Jason Aino original? I was expecting a Pacman-proposal and instead I've got paper so dense there's probably two hundred endangered redwoods compressed into a seven-inch card-stock." He knocked the invitation against the wall, and sure enough, it clacked and barely bent against the repeated blows. "You WASPs really know how to kill some trees."

"It's bamboo and fair-trade hemp," Mina clarified. "Proud of me?"

"Very, honey. Now explain my lack of Kevin Chaston original proposal-art."

Kevin cleared his throat. "I don't know. Zach, we sent those out like, months ago. Why are you just opening it now?"

"Because, Grandpa, like everyone else in this twenty-first century information age, I use this magic box that lets me send mail electronically. I forgot what it's called. Something like 'electronic mail', but not as fancy."

"It was probably an accident."

Zach pouted. "So, as the best man, my invitation is lost in the shuffle with the old people and relatives that you know won't make the trek to Sint Maarten, and thus my relevance is near nothing. Fuck you very much."

"No wait," Mina said. "I swear I sent you one of Jason's. Actually, they're both Jason's, but I thought I sent you the fun one. Check your mail again."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's too far away."

"Are you couch-locked, you stoner?"

"Nope." Zach straightened his spine and cracked it as he rolled his shoulders. "I'm on the toilet."

The couple on the other end began exclaiming madly, Mina squealing at a pitch frequently caused by dolphins. "Gross, Zach! Why did you call us while you're taking a shit?"

"I'm not taking a shit; I _took_ a shit. Now I'm just sitting." He yawned and scratched at a patch of sunburn on his shoulder. "And stop with the act, Kevin. I've called you from the can loads of times. This shouldn't be a shock."

"It's still unsavory."

"Ah, get fucked, or else I'll be forced to disclose the time you did so many rails of coke that you thought you could waterski an inner tube."

Mina cleared her throat and whispered something in the background. Zach's ears picked it up. "What was that?"

"I was asking Kevin if you're going to bring—anyone."

"Like as my date?" He coughed. "Hell no. Weddings are the best places to pick up chicks."

"The only women at this wedding will be married or extremely underage."

"What about Raye? Did she dump your brother yet?"

"No, they are still very happily engaged," Mina confirmed. "Jason's arm is healing up nicely. We went dress-shopping with my mom."

"Wow, that is not interesting to me in the least. Is she going to be wearing something tight? I'm down with VPLs."

"You know Raye doesn't wear panties."

Zach grinned. "Oh, that I do."

"Well, hurry up and find a date already! What about that girl you're seeing?"

"Naomi?" Zach scoffed so hard that he scratched his throat. He barely could stand her for any length of time when they weren't drinking or surfing or fucking; an extended trip where she would meet his friends and family and get ideas would definitely be the wrong move. "No way. Over it."

"For now."

"Don't get smart, Kevin, or I'll tell Philomena about that hot blond artist you've been screwing."

Mina giggled instead of shouting at him; he loved that girl. "No, I'm serious. I keep reminding her that I'm not looking for a relationship, and not to expect anything, and she's not getting the hint."

"Maybe you should stop sleeping with her, then."

"That's crazy talk. I don't chase her; she comes to me. What am I supposed to do, change my locks?"

He could practically hear Mina's frown. "That's still mean, Zach. Stop leading her on."

"She's not that bad," Zach said, and reached for the toilet paper. "She's actually all right. I just don't want—_that_—now." He sucked in a breath. "Maybe not ever. I'll just stay that creepy old uncle that hits on all the teenage girls at weddings."

"Not this wedding. You have to let us know if you're bringing a date or we'll let Kevin's assistant take that place."

"Speaking of date," Kevin interrupted. "You're bringing Raye on Saturday to the Red Ball."

Zach nearly keeled off the toilet. "What? Why didn't you tell me this before? She's not going to wear panties, right?"

"Because she was supposed to go with Jason, but he's claiming that his arm is preventing him from wearing a tux. He and Noah are going to a baseball game." "Those lucky jerks" was left unsaid.

"What!" Now Zach was torn between blessing his good luck while at the same time, cursing his two friends for successfully wiggling out the most boring social event of the century. "What the hell! Now I have to get a haircut if I have any chance with Raye!"

"You don't have any chance with Raye," Kevin finished. "And Serena asked me to remind you that you still owe her a donation, and to wear actual shoes. She says she'll bar you at the door if you turn up looking like a surf bum."

"Sandals _are_ shoes, last time I checked."

"Only if you're a girl."

"Fine. I'll just go barefoot, then. And I'll match Raye and go freeballing."

"Goodbye Zach. See you in a few days."

"Go back to your game shows. Maybe _Dancing with the Stars_ is on, you boring old-" the iPhone screen clicked back to the homepage. "Ah, screw you both."

The sky was darkening rapidly; the choice of staying in or going out was still an option for a young, healthy man of unlimited funds and poor judgment. He probably should start packing for his trip; despite all of the posturing, he knew Serena would eviscerate him on sight if he showed up to her beloved Red Ball wearing less than impeccable formal wear, especially on the first year as chair. There would be mentally packing, that was for sure, to prevent his mother from throwing him through a wall. Even after he bought her that Mercedes. Then again, he had spent a considerable amount of time being a pain in the ass, so she might get a bit of a slide on that. Maybe.

First, he would pack another bowl, and see how many organic burritos he could fit into his now-empty colon.

His phone would start blowing up the moment the stars were out. The same routine every night. Zach was careful to play the part around most people: there were thousands of trustafarians slumming it in the most-least expensive bungalows up and down the coast, each owning several thousand dollars worth of kiteboards and dive equipment, vintage Land Rovers and Reef sandals, Citizen waterproof watches and Kleen Kanteens, cheap beer and primo weed, part-time students/baristas/surf instructors in their late twenties carrying American Express cards with their fathers as cosigners and never enough cash to foot the bill at vegan takeout lunches. He never let most of them get close enough to smell the millionaire in the midst, the kid from a middle-classish neighborhood in the northeast whose father sold aviation equipment and mother did the books for a medical group, who by a combination of brilliance, luck, and the friendship of the son of one of New England's oldest-money families carrying him through Brown, then Harvard, then Wall Street, until sticking up both fingers to the establishments that had made him a fortune, taking all of his money, donating his suits, growing out his Jewfro, and escaping to the other coast, with all of its sand and smog and coddled surf bums. He could play the part. He was never at work full time. Or part time. He had an iPad and an environmental blog. His rusty pickup was just enough vintage to look respectable. His surfboards were custom-made. His skin was tatted and tan and his curly hair was sandy blond. He still did shots at the bar and bong rips at house parties. He collected beach memorabilia that he found at secondhand shops and garage sales. His groceries were from Whole Foods and Bristol Farms. He had at least two guitars that he couldn't play. He had a jetski he never rode. He still had a half million dollars worth of watches. His yard guy was probably illegal so he overpaid him in cash. Once a week a culinary student from the CIA would fix seven days worth of meals that he would package in glass containers in the fridge. Zach overpaid him, too. He purchased wetland and donated it to the Sierra Club on the condition that they keep it anonymous. He had a separate bank account for his mother, who pretended she didn't need the money but spent it anyway. Chrissy would not take money from him, but did take his old Maserati. Tabby sent him designer hoodies and surf shorts that he lent out and never got back. He was thinking about adopting a dog, so he read up on it online. He walked on the beach. He smoked weed. He drunk-dialed his friends-the real ones-on the East Coast in the middle of the night. He wore condoms and sunscreen. His teeth were bleached. He didn't smoke cigarettes. He bought private health insurance. He pretended he was housesitting.

The last rays of sun burned orange on the cream-colored upholstery-including the one with a scorch mark that had been halfway bored out-and gleamed off the polished, dark wood floorboards. The original intent of the beach house was to create an entirely sustainable living unit with solar panel, water catch and filtration, gray water recycling, an indoor greenhouse (multiple benefits in that one), and a tree growing through the middle supporting several oversized hammocks.

There were solar panels.

He wandered into the kitchen with a joint between his teeth, and was rummaging through the freezer when the doorbell rang.

Crap. They had better bring beer this time.

But instead of a gaggle of young men with sunburnt ears and hundred-dollar t-shirts, he was greeted by a petite girl who couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. The expression on her face scared him back a step. He still wasn't wearing any clothing.

"Hey," he said in the most neutral voice he could manage. "What's up?"

Naomi's pale eyebrows were almost knitted together. Her hair was blond save for the inch at the roots where the sun hadn't bleached out the Indiana winters yet, and fell in beach waves to mid-back. She wore one of those dumb dresses that were in style at the moment: spaghetti straps and billowing skirt that feel to her feet, and a silver thumb ring. "I haven't heard from you. Want to make sure you're still alive."

That was a lie; he had sent her a few noncommittal texts. "Yeah."

It was enough affirmation for her to brush past him and sling her oversized hobo bag on the counter. "Bored?"

Zach thought about it for a few seconds before deciding on an answer. "Yeah, kinda. I'm leaving for the East Coast in two days."

"You packed yet?" A small smile this time; the false bravado was melting away. She wasn't mad, or even slightly upset. She was scared. Scared that she had been forgotten, ignored, or replaced. Equal parts brash and insecure, she was a typical twentysomething. Zach had dated women from college-aged to middle-aged and wondered why he even bothered with women anymore.

Naomi's hair brushed the back of her smooth, tanned shoulder, and he suddenly remembered.

They ended up on his sprawling balcony, looking out at the moonlight on the dark water, and firing up a joint. Zach was careful not to drop hot ash on his balls. "Why are you going?" She arranged her feet, one tattooed with some Hindu shit, under the hem of her dress.

"See my family." He let the image of them run through his mind for a few seconds. His mom, with her matching sweater sets and pearl earrings and perpetual look of concern. Tabby, his oldest sister, with dark hair and olive skin like their father, gentle and calm. Chrissy, the middle child, the one he looked like, driving her cars too fast and always coloring a little outside of the lines. His mother's stupid frou-frou dog. His childhood bedroom and having Kevin sleep over on the floor on an air mattress.

And Dad.

Naomi wanted more, but he wasn't giving it to her. "You never talk about them."

He shrugged. "Nothing much to talk about." Not with her, at least. They weren't there yet. They would never be. He could see their future: a few more months, maybe an event or two where he spent some money and she would privately refer to him as her "boyfriend". A few more parties, a few too many missed calls. Their friends might ask about her when he went out without her, but only for a few weeks. They would have some last hookups before another guy gave her more attention, and she would juggle the two of them before deciding to go with the sure bet instead of the constant chase. She would drift out of his life just as easily as she had drifted in.

But for now, packing could wait. He reached over and brushed her hair away from her small, tanned shoulder, and waited for her to lean across his body and press her mouth onto his.

On the other side of the country, Amy brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. A few black strands came loose and fell against the bathroom sink. She paused, plucked them out with slim, white fingers, scratching the porcelain with an unpolished nails, and delicately dangled them over the trash can before letting them go.

The apartment was quiet. Her bangs fell in her eyes; it was time for a trim. Serena would force her to the salon, and probably force her into a body scrub, facial, and massage as well. She'd probably pay for it, too, stating the entire time that Amy needed to relax.

She hadn't been relaxed in years. Probably ever. A pricey massage wasn't going to change that.

She squirted a few pumps of Cetaphil in her palm and washed her face, her too-long bangs getting in the way. A few splashes of water and her nightly beauty routine was finished.

The teakettle was going off. It was red and dented, an old relic, and the whistle was the same as it had been for decades. The whistle of the teakettle was probably one of the first sounds that she had heard. Her mother had it from before she was born, and she would brew ginger and chamomile to combat morning sickness. It was funny to think of her mother as pregnant with her and able-bodied, running around with a baby bump and a cup of tea, pacing the floor, reclining on a couch, putting her feet up.

Towards the end, the visiting nurse had thought to be nice and painted her mother's toenails bright red. It was garish and disgusting, that cherry red color on her mother's twisted, nearly atrophied feet. Her mother had never in her life painted her toenails. Amy made the nurse take it off.

She filled the tea basket with a rooibos-citrus blend and dropped it into an old clay mug with a chip on the handle. Another relic of her mother's, one of the first gifts that Amy's father had given her. She should have thrown it out, or broken it accidentally, so that she would have an excuse to get rid of it. But its rim was wide enough to accommodate a tea basket, so she kept it around.

Just like she kept the apartment around. She could have sold it after her mother passed, but then what? Move where? Chase her father to Portugal? He didn't want her around when she was a child, there was probably no reason to reconnect with him as an adult. She didn't even know what they could talk about. All of the art that her mother had left behind was his-one of these days, she would strip the walls and paint it over, and leave the paintings in a heap on the curb for the hipsters to salvage. Soon. Maybe in the spring.

The hospital bed had gone right away, as had the shower stool, and the wheelchair, and everything else that made living with a degenerative illness supposedly easier. Her mother had resisted all of it as long as she could. "Act sick, be sick," she used to say, shuffling from the kitchen table to the counter, supporting her fading weight. She refused to use the wheelchair, which was good because it didn't fit through doorways anyway. She would lean on Amy for support, sometimes a lot, when her brain started forgetting how to move her muscles, as she would painfully make her way back to her bedroom.

Amy had cleared that room out. Her old bedroom, too. She bought a new bed and moved it into the spare room. Serena helped her pick out new pillows and a new bedspread, and had worn her Marc Jacobs lounge pants and Acne silk knit t-shirt to help her paint it white, and did an absolutely terrible job doing the trim. Amy had to go back with paint thinner and do it again. She bought a desk and moved it into her old bedroom, and splurged on dark oak bookcases. Serena had given her an antique Tiffany lamp as a roomwarming gift. Her mother's favorite chair was moved in, but not before reupholstering it. She bought books. Stacks of books. Hardly a day went by without her stopping at the used book stores around the neighborhood after she got off the train, or picking up a stack at the library (not often anymore, since she kept forgetting to return them), or have a box from Amazon waiting for her on the stoop.

Amy went through at least one a day. She absorbed them. Her mind would drift away from her family's apartment, her mother's favorite chair, and enter a world of elves and fairies, or Southern belles and gentlemen, or medieval midwives and heretics, or heroines who fought vampires or aliens in space. She was free to explore. She was free to explore now, but that would take so much. Booking tickets, packing, taking leave from the lab, arranging for transportation, checking into a hotel. Talking to strangers. Serena would go with her, of course she would, she actually had been after Amy to go on a vacation. She had been plugging Paris, or Venice, or Monaco. Serena had already been to all three, multiple times.

Instead, after her mom was gone, she built this room, and went into it, and then left it without leaving the house.

It was almost time to go, but then her phone rang.

Amy was probably the last person in the city (besides Carrie Bradshaw, and she was fictional) to still have a landline. The lab gave her a Blackberry that she kept fully charged and on her bedside table. The phone ringing now was a single line, rotary dial, and loud enough to hear through the walls. When her mother was still there, Amy kept it unplugged.

It was probably Serena. "Hello?"

"AMY!" It was Serena. "I called you like twice! Did you get rid of your answering machine?"

The answering machine was in her mother's closet, its cord neatly wrapped around it. "I stopped using it months ago."

"I know that. Let's get you a new one. I emailed you too. Did you see my new Pins?"

She hadn't. "Yes."

"So do you like it?"

"Yes."

"LIAR. It's tight and sparkley, I was testing you." Serena had created some online thing where she aggregated evening gowns and accessories for Amy to wear to the Red Ball, and probably added about two dozen things every hour. It was impossible to keep up with it. "Which ones do you like?"

"Uh, the black ones." It seemed like a safe bet.

"Black? OK, cool! We should go all black with DIAMONDS. You can borrow mine. Jimmy Choos! When do you want to go shopping?"

Amy paused with the receiver to her ear as a smile escaped her. Serena had grown up, but hadn't changed much. Her first day at the academy, when she was still new and terrified and wondering how she would adjust to actually living at school, the tiny girl with silvery blonde hair latched onto her like a glittery lampry and hadn't let go since. _HI! I'm Serena! I'm your best friend. Want to trade shoes?_ _I like your hair!_

"Oh, I don't know. Whenever is convenient for you." Actually, she had ordered a dress online, and planned on getting it taken in. Shopping with Serena meant lunch, then private fittings with designers, then dinner out at somewhere with Darien, and probably one of his "friends" that was conveniently single, then martinis and live jazz at a club that had a dress code and bottle service, and then Amy falling asleep in Serena's guest room with the cat next to her, far away from her chair and books. That far away from her normalcy, and she might be convinced to go to Paris. "I think I already have a dress, though."

"We'll get shoes. And you have to try on my diamonds. Oh! And you're wearing makeup to the Red Ball. You can't say no!"

Amy sighed. That had often been her problem. "A little."

"OK, good. I'll make an appointment. You need a haircut, by the way. Just a little bit! I don't mean you look bad, but you'd look so cute with more layers."

"Thanks."

"Oh! And we can do lunch at Blanca. And then-" Serena gave a rundown of what sounded like a very full afternoon without taking a breath. Amy was going to need a couple of days with the phone unplugged to prepare for it.

"Sounds great." She checked the time. Where was Darien? Serena could talk for hours about nothing if no one was around to stop her.

"Good, then this Saturday."

"That's cutting it close."

"Well then it will have to just be PERFECT." She must have sensed Amy's waning interest. "Oh, gotta go! Darien's coming home soon and I want to try and make him an old fashioned. Like a fifties housewife. It will be neat, right?"

"He'll love it."

"OK, I've got to google that then. Talk to you later!" Serena would probably call at least four or five times between now and Saturday. She worried if she didn't hear from Amy regularly.

She put the receiver down and picked up her cup. The steam had quieted down enough for her to handle it with bare hands. The floor was cold; she could put socks on, but it was getting late, and she itched to retreat to her sanctuary.

She turned off the lights to the rest of the house before shutting the door to the study. There was an alarm clock in there, just in case she fell asleep, even though she had never used it before. She always woke at dawn out of habit.

A bookmark was stuck halfway in a McCormack, the one she had a hard time finishing. Too many casualties, and she had a feeling the father wasn't going to make it. She moved it off the pile as she sunk in the oversized chair and fished around for a new one. There was Tolkien in the pile, along with _Gone with the Wind_, her standbys on sleepless nights. More modern literature, not very good, since she had picked them up two-for-a-buck at the book shop. Something with an Oprah recommendation on the cover. Agatha Christie. Young Adult fiction. Something being made into a movie. Something with a dragon on the cover. A small paperback in the middle of the pile won: a historical romance starring a cast of fierce Highlanders and their ladies. It would be nice to see Scotland. She settled a throw blanket around her chilly feet, and started to read.


End file.
